


To Understand [a feeling]

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Sherstrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 03:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a habit of kissing Lestrade at crime scenes because it helps him think, benefits the Work. John makes an assumption that unnerves Sherlock, and he goes to the one person who can help him figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm transferring prompts I've written on tumblr over to AO3 as a back-up. Here's one that I felt was long enough to warrant its own piece, basically. Chapter 1 is the first part of the prompt, and chapter 2 will be going up as soon as I'm finished writing it.
> 
> It's separated into chapters because of the POV change. :D
> 
> This is based off of this prompt: When Sherlock needs to concentrate, like REALLY REALLY concentrate, he needs to kiss Lestrade. It's kind of like a power up for him. Sherlock doesn't know why, and Lestrade is just being obliging, and mostly they're used to it. When John first saw it on the Study in Pink crime scene though, he was surprised. John made Sherlock rethink this thing he took for granted.
> 
> You can find my main writing tumblr [here](http://iolre.tumbr.com), but you can find my prompts tumblr [here](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com) where I take prompts for all minor pairings. :D Feel free to send me some!

John blinked. And then blinked again. But no, his loony flatmate was still kissing the Detective Inspector. Maybe the third time was the charm.

Fuck.

No it wasn't.

Well.

John's mind had crashed and burned, and when Sherlock went running down the stairs, leaving a rumpled Lestrade behind, John just stared, too dazed to move. What exactly had he gotten into? Lestrade cleared his throat, his cheeks faintly pink, and John looked at him, blinking again. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and stopped. "Well. Uh." John swallowed noisily, trying to figure out what was polite to say in such a situation. "I'm - going to go."

Lestrade simply nodded and turned to talk with another member of his team, none of which seemed to have batted an eye at the furious snogging that had been happening moments prior. Aliens, John decided. They were all aliens. It was the only logical solution. Sherlock was gone by the time he got downstairs, and Sally smirked at him as he walked past, his lips pursed, heading for the main road.

When he arrived home, 221B Baker Street, Sherlock was waiting there, laying on the sofa, fingers tapping together underneath his chin. John cleared his throat, not sure where to look or what to say. “So.” Sherlock glanced his way and then back at the ceiling, a scowl on his face, fingers tapping impatiently together. “You and - and Lestrade. You’re dating, then?”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in John’s direction. “No.”

John blinked, his body switching to automatic and going to make tea. It was a default reaction, he figured, programmed into every British person since birth. Tea was the answer to everything. “Then - but you kissed him.”

“Yes, I did.”

He waited for Sherlock to say something else, waited until the tea was done steeping and he had added milk and sugar and had it wrapped in his hands. John took a sip and coughed. “Not the first time, was it?”

Sherlock frowned, looking in John’s direction. “No.”

“Ah,” he said, exhaling. “Just - that sort of thing, normally done between - ah, it doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock lifted up from the couch, the frown deepening. “What are you saying?”

John sighed. “Just - Sherlock, you don’t normally kiss someone in front of someone else unless you’re dating. Or it’s for a silly bet, or something like that.”

It was a few moments before Sherlock laid back down on the couch, his eyes closing, but there was something in the twitch of his fingertips that made John distinctly uncomfortable. He hoped he had not crossed a boundary that should not have been crossed, or cracked some fragile defense the consulting detective had erected.

Then Sherlock was up, pulling on his coat, and out the door, without a word to John.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that went quicker than expected.

Greg walked in his door with a sigh, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up. There was so much on his mind, so much he needed to get done, and it was only falling asleep at his desk twice that had sent him home for a few hours’ rest. He turned and saw the dark shape looming in the corner. Instinctively he took a step back, his adrenaline spiking before he recognized who it was. “Bloody hell, Sherlock,” Greg muttered, his heart beating fast. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t get an answer, not that he really expected one. Sherlock did what Sherlock wanted to, and most of the time he didn’t feel an explanation was necessary. It did surprise him, however, when Sherlock strode over, pinning him to the wall with his arms and his eyes. Sherlock didn’t really need the physical restraint, not with the way his eyes were boring into Greg’s. It sent shivers of fear and arousal crashing through his body, not that it could distinguish one from the other. Sherlock claimed his mouth, kissing him fiercely.

Greg gasped into the kiss, his lips parting, and Sherlock took it for an invitation, doing delicious things to Greg with the way he twisted his tongue, making arousal surge through the DI’s veins. Absently the smarter part of him wondered exactly why Sherlock was in his flat and they were snogging, but the saner part pointed out that he didn’t really care because Sherlock was such a fucking good kisser and societal niceties be damned.

Finally Sherlock pulled away, his eyes piercing, intense, but there was a confusion behind them, a frustration that Greg could not read. He panted, trying to regain his breath, almost fully hard in his trousers. Sherlock glanced down, and Greg’s cheeks coloured. They had never kissed long enough for Sherlock to notice the reaction. Greg met his curious, dispassionate gaze, trying to figure out exactly what was going on.

“Are we dating?” Sherlock asked abruptly, completely pulling back. Well, there went Greg’s problem.

“Come again?” Greg inquired warily, not sure if he had heard Sherlock correctly.

“You understood what I said, Lestrade, don’t be boring.”

“Aren’t we?” he said cautiously, feeling out the situation. He certainly thought they were dating. There were dinners and cases, smiles and soft touches. Rare though they were, Greg had just assumed that the frequency was part of dating Sherlock. There was something brewing underneath Sherlock’s facade, something dark and ugly and it made Greg nervous. It was not exactly the situation he had planned to encounter when he came home.

It was the the wrong to say, and Greg could tell as soon as it registered on Sherlock’s face. The consulting detective shut down, his lips twisting into an ugly sneer and his eyes as guarded as the rest of his emotions. Greg swore inwardly, cursing his ineptitude and inability to determine exactly what was going through Sherlock’s mind. The taller man took a half-step back, defensive, and Greg was careful not to move, keeping his arms loose and his hands unfurled at his sides. He knew enough to know that spooking Sherlock could send him away forever, and he had no desire to do anything of the sort.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Greg could watch his thin chest go up and down, watch the muscles shift - it was hypnotizing in a strange way, amazing to know that this strange, brilliant human drew breath just like he did. Then he moved, pulling out his coat from wherever he had secreted it and drawing it on. He ignored Greg, keeping his face angled away, and said nothing. Greg watched, knew what it meant, knew what was coming. This was it.

The taller man made it within a few steps of the door before it was Greg’s turn to do some pinning. He grabbed Sherlock’s thin arm through the wool of his coat and turned and pushed him, pressing him against the door and blocking him from moving. Sherlock shifted experimentally, seemingly unimpressed. “I could break out of this, if I wanted.” His voice was low, mocking.

“Yeah, I know,” Greg replied, his face centimetres from Sherlock’s. He was going to make this work, no matter what he had to do. The last thing he wanted was Sherlock going out and finding chemical release. “But you’re not going to.”

The room fell silent after that, Greg’s arms pinning Sherlock’s to the door, staring at him, watching those hating, guarded eyes. He was angry, yes, but Greg could feel no animosity from him, no genuine hatred. Resentment, perhaps. Fear in spades. But Greg didn’t think he was upset. The walls were lowering.

As Greg watched, they crumbled, leaving the taller, acerbic man completely unguarded. Part of him felt victorious, and part of him felt sad. It shouldn’t be this way. No one should have - have hurt Sherlock so badly that he felt the only way to get close to someone was to push them away. Sherlock’s knees gave way and Greg pressed forward, supporting him as he sank to the floor and sitting down next to him, no longer touching.

“You’ll hate me. They all did.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, full of self-loathing, and it made Greg’s heart clench in his chest.

“Who is ‘all’?” he asked, wanting to put an arm around the other man but not certain he would get away with it. Sherlock shrugged dismissively, as if the actual answer to that question was less important than the implications of what he he had said. “Seriously, Sherlock. I’ll shut them up for you.”

“That would be stupid,” Sherlock muttered, somewhat incredulously.

“It’s - it’s an expression, Sherlock.”

He seemed surprised by this, emotions flitting briefly across his face. “Ah. Sentiment.”

Greg smiled wryly, a bit rueful. “Yeah, that.”

“Why did you think we were dating?” Sherlock asked after a minute had passed. He had pulled his knees up to his chest, his chin resting on the knobby patellas, and he was looking straight ahead, not acknowledging the other man directly.

Greg pondered the question for a moment, wondering exactly how to phrase it without receiving a scorn-laden reply. “You smile at me, sometimes. Like I’m the most brilliant thing in the world.” He could feel a blush on his cheeks, could feel it start creeping down his neck and up to his ears. “You let me get you take-out, and let me fuss over you until you eat it.”

“That’s it?” Sherlock scoffed.

“I’m not done, you daft bastard.” Sherlock scowled half-heartedly at the air, but went quiet. “I like you, Sherlock. I really do. Yeah, you annoy my team, and I’m not convinced that Sally hasn’t plotted out at least six ways to murder you, but - there’s something about you. You’re not the arrogant sod that you try to come across, at least not to me.” Greg was rather sure that he was completely red at this point. He had never done something like this before, never laid his emotions out on his sleeve for anyone to see. It would be terrifying with anyone else, but this was Sherlock. He didn’t even want to think about the potential implications of that.

It was as if he could see Sherlock trying to dredge up the last bits of his armour, try to form something that would guarantee that Greg would not be able to hurt him. Gently Greg tugged on his long legs, and Sherlock extended them, his head rising from his knees to watch Greg, wary and curious at the same time. As soon as he could do so comfortably he straddled Sherlock’s lap, keeping most of the pressure on his knees so that he wouldn’t hurt Sherlock.

“Look, I’m not promising this would work, alright?” Greg said, a few centimetres away, his eyes flickering between Sherlock’s and his lips. “Yeah, you’re - you’re you, but Sherlock, I like that about you.” There it was, that ugly flicker of emotion across Sherlock’s face, and Greg leaned in, gently pressing his lips to Sherlock’s. There was a jolt of surprise, they had never kissed outside of a crime scene before, but Sherlock tentatively opened his mouth.

They kissed slowly for long minutes, Sherlock’s hands twisting in a fret before settling on Greg’s hips, tracing his hipbones through the trousers he wore for work. It was sweet and tender, so very different from the fierce kisses they normally shared at crime scenes. Greg pulled away, breathless and dizzy, eyes immediately seeking Sherlock’s. The consulting detective looked debauched, lips red and swollen, curls everywhere, and there was the slightest hint of hysteria to his expression, the way he was shaking. But he didn’t throw Greg off him, didn’t demand that he move. He did not reject him, him nor the hand that he was offering.

Instead he pitched his head forward until his forehead rested against Greg’s collarbone, low enough that Greg could wrap an arm around his shoulders and hold him until the tremours stopped. He murmured into his ear, nonsensical things, trying to soothe. Finally they slowed, and Sherlock was limp in his arms, his face buried in Greg’s chest. Neither of them said a thing, and Sherlock allowed Greg to stand, allowed himself to be manhandled until they were curled up on the couch, Greg on his back, Sherlock draped over him, his head still tucked in the hollow between Greg’s neck and shoulder, fingers tracing patterns on the DI’s stomach. “So,” Greg murmured, trying not to let his voice shake. “Do you...want to give it a try?”

He took a deep breath, and Greg tried not to tense, knowing what was coming, what Sherlock would say, and it would be all over. It was the decision, his decision, and Greg would have to honour it. One word and it would be over - or it would be the birth of something new. Sherlock pressed a soft, tentative kiss to Greg’s neck.

“Yes.”


End file.
